


The Defect of 221B Baker Street

by fiftyninesouth (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Divorce, F/M, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-01-07
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-07 19:56:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1123772
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/fiftyninesouth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's been two months since John and Mary separated over John's love for someone else, something that Sherlock, for once, can keep his mouth shut about (but not for long).  The thing that Sherlock can't deduce, is who John is longing for.  After a row between the two men on the very subject, a toxin called 'The Defect' is released at 221B Baker Street, and overnight John and Sherlock are reverted to childhood.  </p>
<p>It's funny, how such things can open the eyes of a man who sees everything and nothing at all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Setup

The wonderful thing about 221B Baker Street was that it was near a good bit of commerce. If one was hungry, all one had to do was go to a café across the street or a grocer around the corner. All one had to do was look out the window to see people milling about, living life without a thought in their heads, a care in the world, or a trouble to be found.

That was also the flaw of 221B Baker Street. Commerce often meant chaos in a controlled surrounding. It was the perfect place to commit something of a suspicious nature. It was the perfect setting. Everyone was so busy watching out for themselves against the movement around them, they didn’t pay attention to the stillness, the quiet, the nothingness. A busy street was a place to commit a crime if one didn’t want to get caught. If one did want to get caught, you did it in the backstreets where the only thing the nosy neighbors had to do was pay attention to what you were doing through their window shutters. 

This was part of the beauty, however strange that beauty may be, of one Sherlock Holmes. While everyone around him had minds that concentrated on the speed of chaos and kept up with it, he was able to slow it down to see it in a clearer picture and pick it apart. Chaos was dull. It was the things that happened in the tranquility of chaos that fascinated Sherlock. 

Sherlock Holmes, however, was not at home during the twilight when a man of very average build (perhaps a little taller, actually, if anyone had seen him, which they had not) had carefully forced his way into Sherlock’s flat. Atop a high shelf, where even a man as tall as Sherlock couldn’t see, there was placed a package with a timer inside. That timer, when triggered, would slowly release a toxin, a poison if you will, created by a group of very bored scientists with a grudge. The toxin was simply called ‘The Defect’. 

It was placed atop that very high shelf for three good reasons. One of which was because it would not be seen. Of the other two, they wouldn’t be obvious to anyone but Sherlock Holmes himself. The toxin would take care of the problem that presented very shortly indeed. 

The man made quick work of his task, exiting the flat without leaving any sign that he had been there at all. Once on street level, he joined the throng of people walking about with a simple glance at his watch. A smirk graced his handsome features, which was the only thing that would make him memorable on a street such as this, even as plainly as he was dressed. If everything went as he had planned, Sherlock would be home in one hour, give or take five minutes. 

_______________________________________

The first thing John Watson did when he entered the flat was plop himself down in his chair in exhaustion. 

For the past three months, Sherlock had kept his silence about such a thing. He’d only done so out of respect for John. He didn’t know what John was going through personally, but he knew John personally enough to know not to bring his and Mary’s divorce up. It had been itching underneath Sherlock’s skin the moment John had moved back into the flat after the divorce three months ago. The urge to let John know that he knew the man was lying to him about the why and the how was strong. But Sherlock could see the hurt on John’s face every time the divorce was mentioned in their presence and kept his mouth shut. 

John had told him that Mary and he had mutually agreed to the divorce. Sherlock knew it was a lie before it even left John’s mouth. He knew why John would feel the need to lie, though. It was obvious Mary wanted the divorce because John had failed in the marriage. Sherlock had deduced within Moments that John had been emotionally distant, didn’t give her much attention, had began to give a lackluster sexual performance that was nowhere near satisfying for either of them, and all but abandoned the affirmation that he loved her as a wife. 

The marriage itself hadn’t even managed to make it to the first year. 

He could understand that, perhaps, John was ashamed of the fact that he was the main reason the marriage had failed. People lied for the most trivial reasons, Sherlock thought. He didn’t think any less of John because of a simple failed marriage. Such things happened daily.

It was painfully obvious to Sherlock as to why John, who had been happy with the engagement, but had been not so happy with the marriage after it had happened, had become so detached from the union.

John Watson had someone else on his mind. It was the discovery on Mary’s part that John was having such thoughts that had been the beginning of the end for them.

John had also said that they were still amicable towards each other. Sherlock also knew this to not be true. For the most part anyways. After all, Mary had kept her job, so it would be easier for the both of them to at least act friendly around the other. But it was behind the scenes where such things fell apart. John, being the type of person who could get along with nearly anyone, still thought of Mary as someone he could have as a friend. This was an ignorant thought on John’s part because Mary didn’t feel the same. At first, she had been angry with him. Arguments over this other woman would occur daily. They were small little things in the beginning, but towards the end, they had turned into all out screaming matches in which Mary would accuse John of caring more for the other woman than he did for her. 

Sadly, such an accusation was true.

As of late, though, Mary’s anger had softened. She, too, saw what was happening to John on a daily basis. She no longer would only exchange necessary, clipped sentences with John. Instead, she would linger a bit, looking on as day by day the darkness around John’s eyes would grow more pronounced. She wanted so badly to provide comfort for John, but knew he wouldn’t take it. Instead of anger when Mary looked upon John, she saw sadness because of repressed, unvoiced and therefor, unrequited, feelings. The thing Sherlock knew was that Mary knew who John was longing after. She also knew, where Sherlock didn’t, was that he would never act on the feelings he had been trying so hard to hide. She knew that John had been denying these feelings because he’d tried so hard to forget about them. 

What drove Sherlock crazy was the fact that he had absolutely no clue as to who that woman might be. Every time he thought he was close to discovering her identity, John seemed to realize the fact and would shut himself down. He would do so in such a way that Sherlock, for the first time where John was concerned, drew a complete, absolute blank. It had finally driven him to a point that not even his utmost respect for John could silence him anymore.

He sat down in the chair across from John, his fingers steepled under his chin. If he were to get anything out of his conversation before John shut down, he would have to concentrate. “Who was it?”

John raised his head, his eyebrows raising in confusion at the seemingly odd question. “I’m sorry, who was who?”

Sherlock ignored the question and narrowed his eyes. Perhaps honesty would help him. Maybe draw a bit of sympathy out of John because of the confusion the other man was causing him. “For the first time, I’m drawing a blank on you, John.”

Still, nothing out of John except for the confusion that usually came from someone whose intelligence was simpler. 

“I’m…I feel like I’m missing something. Who are we talking about?”

“The woman, John. Who was the woman?” Sherlock asked, his tone finally taking on a bit of annoyance.

“The Woman? Are you talking about Irene Adler? You know who she was, John.”

“No, no, no, John. Do try to keep up. Who was the woman that you pined after so much that it drove Mary to end your marriage?”

John’s face was blank in an instant. Not because his thoughts were so, but because he had taught himself to put such a mask in face whenever this particular subject came up.

It didn’t go unnoticed by Sherlock. “You’re doing that thing, that face, where you’re trying to keep me out.”

“Because I am, Sherlock!” John shouted. It was loud and unexpected enough that it effectively silenced Sherlock, causing the other man to noticeably tense. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…can we stop talking about this. ”

“I want to kn…”

“As my friend, Sherlock,” John interrupted, “will you do this for me? This isn’t something I’m proud of and it’s my one secret I want to keep from you. So, please Sherlock, just drop the subject.” There was a desperate pleading to John’s voice that alarmed Sherlock. The taller man had never heard John speak in such a manner.

Sherlock wanted to push this issue. He wasn’t one to be deterred on such things and would resort to extreme measures to get answers when he couldn’t come up with one himself. But he could see the fatigue around John’s eyes, could see how much whatever John was hiding was taking a toll on him by the uncharacteristic slump of his spine. As much as he wanted to push, he knew, as a friend (because he was beginning to understand such things about friendship) that he needed to leave John be. The other man’s sanity seemed to be resting on his ability to do so.

“Perhaps, John, you should retire early,” he suggested, his voice showing deep concern.

John looked up, finally meeting Sherlock’s eyes head on. He nodded. “Yea, yea, I think I will.” He pushed himself up from his chair with a groan that spoke of aching bones and a weary mind. 

Sherlock, at least, was right in the fact that John should retire to bed. John didn’t even make it out of his clothing or even his bed. Only his shoes had been haphazardly kicked off, before he’d just fallen down on the couch and nearly fell asleep immediately.

Sherlock, taking his own advice, followed not long after. He made it one step further than John, however, in the fact that he’d put on his pajamas before climbing in bed. 

It wasn’t long after that the toxin slowly began to trickle outwards into the flat of 221B Baker Street.

_______________________________________

When Mary showed up for work the morning after the break-in, she knew immediately that something was wrong. John was always someone that showed up on time due his time in the military. So when she discovered that he wasn’t in his office, something went off in her head. She pushed it to the back of her mind, though. She had an office to open, after all. But when thirty minutes had passed and patients began to show up with still no sign of John, she began to worry. 

She phoned John, only for it to go immediately to voicemail. He hadn’t put it on the charger the night before. With a cringe, she scrolled down to Sherlock’s name and gave him a dial only to get the same results. Straight to voicemail. Mary even dialed Mrs. Hudson to ask if she would check on John, but wasn’t able to because she was stuck at an appointment herself. The next person on her list was Greg Lestrade. 

She finally got somewhere with him, but it was just as troubling. Sherlock was supposed to have met him and Molly at St. Bart’s that morning to look at a body. He’d never arrived. They however, were able to leave and go check on the two men and would phone her back as soon as they found something out.

The door to 221B had been unlocked, something that worried Greg and Molly both. Greg had been about to shout out for Sherlock, but it had immediately died on his lips as his eyes found the couch.

There, sleeping peacefully, nestled in clothing that both Greg and Molly knew to belong to John Watson, was a small child with blond, sleep tousled hair who looked to be about eight. 

“Molly,” Greg started hesitantly, “why is there a child in Sherlock Holmes’ flat?” He didn’t ask why said child was sleeping in a pile of John’s clothes.

Molly’s face was vacant, her eyes wide as saucers. 

“I…I’ll go check the bedroom. See if he knows.” She walked backwards a few steps before turning to hurry off to Sherlock’s room. 

Greg leaned down so he might be able to gently rouse the child. Whoever this child belonged to, they had to be returned. Before his fingers could make contact, though, he heard Molly scream from the bedroom. He jumped up, hurrying his way into the bedroom. One look at Molly’s face told him he wouldn’t like what he was going to see. She was white as a sheet and nearly shaking. 

Slowly, Greg turned towards the bed to see what had frightened her so. His knees nearly gave out on him. 

Sitting in the middle of the bed, wrapped in an adult’s pajamas, was a small, frightened child with dark brown, curly hair and eyes that could only belong to Sherlock Holmes.


	2. The Boys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's funny how The Defect works. You go to sleep an adult and you wake up a child, with no memory of ever having been an adult. It's not so funny for the people who know you best that are left with the consequences.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All the mistakes are my own. I don't have a beta, I know, I know. If anyone knows of someone who wants the job, I'll be more that happy to have one! So send them my way. 
> 
> I'm crap at writing conversations between more than two or three people and I have one between five. So I apologize for the awkwardness. A lot. 
> 
> Also, I post this to my tumblr, too. Be warned though, it's new. Check me out at fiftyninesouth

The first thing that Sherlock noticed when he woke up, but before he opened his eyes, was that it was stifling hot in his room. This was because he was covered in far too many blankets for his own comfort. He didn’t remember such, but his mother must have come in and covered him with more during the night. She’d been complaining about a cold front and how he didn’t have enough blankets on the bed and ‘darling, you’ll just freeze, I know it, please let me put a quilt on the bed.’ 

He’d been obstinate with her that he’d be fine overnight, but apparently she didn’t believe him after all and had covered him up after all. He just started kicking until the blankets were down by his waist. 

It was then that he realized he wasn’t at home. The morning sun was hitting his back, meaning that the window was facing the east. His window faced south. The sun wasn’t supposed to be hitting any part of his body. Also troubling, if the sun was high enough that it was hitting anything, it meant that he was late for school. His parents were adamant about school. Something or another about other children and interacting. 

He wasn’t an idiot after all. Thank you very much, Mycroft.

He bolted up, looking around wildly. This wasn’t his room at all. The walls were a cream green color with pattern. His walls were plain cream beige, no pattern at all. The bed was far too large; it was an adult’s bed, bigger than his parents’ bed even. The sheets were clean, but there was an outline of someone that was much larger than him on the mattress. It had been slept on recently. Within the last four hours. They’d been kicked out only for Sherlock to be put there. He’d been placed in ridiculously large pajamas, also meant for an adult, but made do for him. He’d been the only one wearing them. Where his body hadn’t been, the material was room temperature. 

They were in the city, not the country like at home. The sounds of a bustling city street could be heard outside. It wasn’t a city he recognized, though. He wanted to say London, but there was something off about it. It was familiar enough from the trips he took with his parents into the city, but there was just something different about it. He couldn’t place what it was, and it was starting to irk him. 

He breathed in deep, calming down the panic that was starting to rise. He was in a strange room, in a strange bed, in a strange city, with no recollection whatsoever of who took him or how he got there.

He’d been kidnapped. He’d been drugged and kidnapped. It was the only logical conclusion. 

It had to have happened at around two in the morning. His parents and Mycroft went to bed around ten, and would be dead to the world around midnight. Two would have been the perfect time. Everyone in the house was dead asleep and wouldn’t be close to being aware of anything until four. Kidnap someone in the in between so no one would notice. 

Looking down at himself, and really, this shirt was falling off him (the kidnappers were idiots for even trying to put him in this) he found that he wasn’t in pain or bleeding at all. Kidnapped for a high ransom, then. You don’t damage the victim until after you’ve made demands for ransom so they know you’re serious. Sherlock nearly snorted.

His parents weren’t rich people. No one would be getting much money out of them. So why did they kidnap him? 

A cold dread suddenly ran through Sherlock as all of his deductions finally caught up with him. 

He hadn’t been hurt. Yet. He’d been kidnapped for ransom money and when the kidnappers found out that they wouldn’t be getting any large sum of money, they wouldn’t need him anymore. They would kill him. 

He had his panic under control so far. All he was experiencing was anxiety. But then a door slammed open and two sets of people were coming up the stairs. The first, heavy footfalls, a man, average height and build. The second, lighter footfalls, a woman, lithe, small. Both in a hurry. Both panicked. 

His mind froze. His body froze. His eyes widened as the pair burst into the flat. He heard a conversation, about a child, then his name. The lighter footsteps, the woman, came into the room. He just stared at her, but when she looked up him, she did the strangest of things. 

She screamed.

The man came in after her and when he looked upon Sherlock, looked like he was about to fall to the ground in shock. Clearly, these two were expecting someone else. They had been expecting whoever had been sleeping in this bed before Sherlock. So, not kidnappers, then. But if they weren’t kidnappers, then how did he get here? 

Sherlock wanted to pull his hair. Usually he was so good at this. He got things wrong in his deduction games with Mycroft, but never something as big as this. It was the fear he was experiencing that was throwing him off. He’d have to work on that, not letting his emotions get the better of him.

He was about to start more deductions, perhaps find a way out of this situation, when the man asked the woman, “How fast can you get in contact with Mycroft?”

“So you ARE kidnappers?”

He realized he said that particular bit aloud when he got puzzled looks from the both of them. 

The woman slowly kneeled down beside the bed. Sherlock nearly shrunk away from her, but didn’t want her to know how afraid of her she was, so he stilled. 

“Hi,” she said gently, genuinely. She didn’t want to hurt him. But she still didn’t make a move to get closer to him. She sensed his unease. “I’m Molly, what’s your name?”

Sherlock was going to respond with something to make her feel stupid. But when he looked up, the man had the same strange look on his face as the woman. As he looked upon them both, he saw expressions that he wasn’t quite familiar with. He’d seen them before, but where? He concentrated, going deep within his limited experience with emotions of such sort, to find where he’d seen those expressions before.

He found it, just like that, and he looked back up at the two. He’d seen it before on his parent’s faces when he’d come home from school, tears in his eyes because his classmates had called him names: freak, odd, strange, funny looking, unusual, abnormal.

It was worry. These two people were worried about him. 

Which made his deductions about them being kidnappers go out the window. He didn’t think kidnappers would be the type to worry about the kidnapped. It could only mean one thing.

“You already know my name, don’t you? You know who I am. But I don’t know you. No, no, not that. I don’t remember you. Why don’t I remember you?”

His eyebrows drew together as the woman’s, Molly, face softened up. “I don’t know for sure if I know you, so I need to know your name to confirm that I do.”

How strange, Sherlock thought, that you could be not sure if you knew someone or not. But then again, these people knew him, but he didn’t know them. So he was, a bit of sorts, in the same situation as them. “I’m Sherlock Holmes.”

The looks on their faces confirmed the fact that they knew him. It was dread mixed with confusion and more worry. It made Sherlock very, very uncomfortable for such emotions to be aimed at him. It made him wonder what exactly was wrong with him that these two people would look such a way. 

“And who are you?” Sherlock asked, looking at the man in back.

The man in question startled, alarmed that he was being asked a question by Sherlock at all. “Lestrade,” he replied, hoping the name might help Sherlock know who he was.

It didn’t. “I asked for your name, not your last name.”

Lestrade’s eyebrows rose nearly to his hairline. “Well, at least we know it’s the same Sherlock,” he mumbled to Molly. “Why do you reckon that?” he asked with a challenging smile on his face.

“Because no parent is stupid enough to name their child Lestrade,” Sherlock quickly retorted back.

Lestrade opened his mouth to fuss at Sherlock, but Molly popped him in the knee before he could, nearly toppling the man over. “Don’t you need to go call Mycroft, Greg?” 

Ah, so the man’s name was Greg. Sherlock would have to remember that.

Lestrade swallowed down a grumble as he pulled his cell phone out and made his way to the living room. “And wake John up when you’re done, find out if that’s him, too,” she added as he made his way out.

_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Lestrade sighed heavily as soon as he hung up the phone with Mycroft. Talking to that man was worse than arguing with Sherlock. It was clear why Sherlock always made other people in the room feel like idiots at any given chance. Look who he had as an older brother. Lestrade couldn’t imagine having grown up under that particular shadow.

But that problem was taken care of. The wheels were motion. Mycroft was on his way and would contact Mrs. Hudson and Mary to let them in on the situation. In less than half an hour, this flat would be very full indeed. Which brought him to his next task.

Waking up John without alarming the man…child.

He was no Molly, that much was for sure, but he did know how to be gentle. He crouched down next to the couch so he wouldn’t be standing over the child. Reaching out, he gently shook the tiny shoulder until the boy started to grumble about being woken up. The child rolled over, his fists rubbing at his eyes to get rid of the sleep. When he finally opened them and took in Lestrade, he pushed back as far into the couch as he could. 

“Who are you?” he asked, his voice calm with just an edge of fright.

“I’m Lestrade.” He thought about Sherlock’s reaction to that and added, “Greg Lestrade. What’s your name?” he asked. He knew this child had to be John, but like Molly, he wanted to hear the boy say his name to be sure.

The child took in Lestrade warily. “I’m not supposed to talk to strangers.” 

Lestrade had to shut his eyes. He would not be outsmarted by two eight year olds in one day. He wouldn’t. “Well, I’m not exactly a stranger if you know my name, am I?”

The child narrowed his eyes under that unruly mop of blond hair and his little nose scrunched up. If Lestrade were a weaker man, he’d admit it was the cutest thing he’d ever seen in his entire life. “My name’s John Watson.”

Lestrade had to hold back the dread that nearly crossed his face again. “Well, John Watson, now that we’re not strangers anymore, how about you and I become friends?”

“Maybe,” John replied, his gaze becoming less shrewd. “I don’t think I’d make a very good friend, though. You’re old.”

Lestrade wanted to sigh. So loudly. He wasn’t good with kids. He had to think. What would a child around John’s age think was cool? What would John think was interesting as an adult? He smiled as a thought hit him. John was in the military, he still had the ID to prove it. “Well, I don’t know about you, but I think I’d want to be friends with a detective inspector.” He reached into his coat and pulled out his badge. As he predicted, John’s eyes lit up as he took in the badge.

“Can I hold it?!”  
_______________________________________________________________________________________________

Mary, Mycroft, and Mrs. Hudson all arrived within a few minutes of each other. Enough so that they all headed up together. Mycroft arrived first in his usual black car, stepping out as if getting a phone call that his brother and said brother’s best friend were now children was nothing. He would have gone on in if it weren’t for the fact that he saw Mary, very out of breath, she’d ran most of the way here from the office, coming up the street. 

She leaned on him for support, something that made him very uncomfortable. By the time she caught her breath a few minutes later, Mrs. Hudson was making her way up the street with her grocery purchases from the market. She looked harassed, but had no problem unburdening herself of her bags onto Mycroft. 

“Just put them on the counter, dear,” she said as they all made their way in.

When they walked into the flat, they didn’t know what exactly they were expecting, but it definitely wasn’t this. There was, in fact, a very small boy that looked just like John Watson, in clothes that swallowed him, sitting on the couch playing with Lestrade’s badge. The most bizarre thing? Lestrade was laughing out loud at the cop car noises John was making.

Their mouths were hanging open, but it was Mary who recovered first. “Where’s…Molly?”

“Right here,” she replied, her voice coming from the kitchen. 

If they weren’t shocked yet, now was the time to be such. Molly was carrying on her hip, as if it were the most natural thing in the entire world, Sherlock wrapped in a blanket. His cheek rested on her shoulder, but his eyes were scanning the room wildly, taking in everyone standing around. 

“Now these are good people,” she began explaining gently. “They’re not here to hurt you. You already know Greg, you’ll met the other three later. But right now, we need to have a grown up discussion about what we’re going to do to get you back to the Sherlock we know.”

Walking over to the couch, Lestrade got up so Molly could deposit Sherlock next to John. She tucked the blanket closer around him and ran her fingers through his hair. “Sherlock, this is John Watson. Say hello.”

“Hello,” John said, looking shyly over at the other boy.

Sherlock didn’t say anything back. He just looked at John then turned back to Molly. 

“It’s okay, Sherlock, you can trust him. You’re best friends, after all.”

“We are?” Sherlock asked, as if he couldn’t imagine ever having friends, much less with the grown up version of this boy sitting next to him.

“The very best of friends,” she replied, her finger tapping him on the end of his nose. “Now, be good while I talk to my friends. Can you do that?”

He nodded, his curls bouncing wildly as he did so.

When she stood up, it was only to face the very shocked face of Mycroft Holmes. She didn’t think that was possible.

“I grew up with him as a child and mother could never get him to be so agreeable. What on earth did you do?” Mycroft asked.

Her smile very nearly turned into a smirk. “I know how to talk to him.”

“Now hold on,” Lestrade butted in. “You just told him that he and John were best friends. How much does Sherlock know?”

“The truth,” she replied. “That he was an adult yesterday and something turned him into a child. He’s eight, if you want to know, based on the year he thought it was.”

“Now why would you do something like that?” Mycroft asked, condescendingly. 

“He’s your brother!” she snapped back. “You should know him just as well as we do. He would have figured it out the second he saw all of us together if I didn’t tell him. And then he wouldn’t trust any of us and we need both of those boys to trust us.”

“She’s right,” Mary said. “Neither of them would trust us if they found out we lied to them. Children can be surprisingly clever about those things.”

“Then was does John know? The poor thing, must be so confused,” Mrs. Hudson said.

“He’s fine,” Lestrade said. “I haven’t told him anything, he hasn’t asked anything. All he knows is that I’m a detective. He says he’s eight, too. God, what must have that boy been through as a child.”

“What do you mean?” Mary asked. She knew John. He talked about his childhood all the time. It wasn’t with any fondness, but he never spoke negatively of it either.

Greg looked at the rest of them, his face nearly blank. He understood, in that moment, what it was like to be Sherlock. To know something that no one else in the room did. But he saw it all the time when he had cases like these involving kids. “If John didn’t ask any questions, it means he just accepted the situation as is. The first adult with any authority tells him everything is okay and he believes him. No questions asked. Means he puts more faith in authority than his own family. Sherlock, on the other hand, thought we were his kidnappers. I mean, I know Sherlock is on a higher thinking plane than us, even at that age, but still… His reaction was much, much healthier than John’s.”

“Oh god,” Mrs. Hudson sighed. “The poor dear. Makes you just want to wrap him in a hug.”

“Neither of them have much experience in that,” Mycroft said sadly. There was affection in their house growing up, but there wasn’t much physical affection. Neither of the two boys had been hugged simply to be hugged growing up. “I hate to do such to him, but he needs to know. Who wants to tell John the truth?” 

“I will, he trusts me,” Lestrade replied. “But I’m gonna need Molly sitting with me so she can fix him when I mess up.”

Molly rolled her eyes, but she smiled nonetheless. “You won’t mess him up, Greg. You’ll be fine. You’re better with kids than you think you are.” There was a softness and fondness in her voice as she said it. Mary was the only one who raised an eyebrow at the interaction.

“Not to be the one to point out the elephant in the room, but we do need to find out how this happened to our boys so we can change them back,” Mycroft said. “And what exactly are we going to do with them until then?”

There was a collective sigh among the group. None of them knew exactly what to do with two small children suddenly thrust upon them. They hated to admit it, because children should never be a burden, but it was a burden to five adults who, yesterday, had two grown up friends instead of children.

“A few days clothes would be the most pressing thing, I assume. We can’t have them wandering around in a blanket and an oversized jumper.” Everyone nodded at Mary’s line of thought. Even though Mycroft knew Sherlock would be more than happy to wander around naked all day in nothing but a sheet.

“All of us have jobs, though. Where will they stay during the day? We can’t put them in a daycare center, how would we explain it when they suddenly stopped going after a week?” Lestrade asked.

“Or how any of us suddenly acquired children,” Mycroft added. 

“I could keep them during the day,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Don’t have a proper day job, so it would be easy to watch the two dears while I patter around my kitchen.”

“I could take Sherlock when I’m not working,” Molly said.

“And I could take John when I’m not working,” Lestrade chimed in.

“I’ll come around as much as I can,” Mycroft added. “While I’m not there, I’m going to work on finding out who did this and how to…”

“No,” Mary interrupted. Her voice was solid and sure. “No, you can’t do that.”

Everyone turned to her, their eyebrows raised in question. From the soft smile on her face, it was clear she knew something that they didn’t. No one in the room picked it up. No one but Mycroft, but even he was confused as to why Mary didn’t agree with the solution. 

“But why, Mary?” Mycroft asked.

“Because,” she started gently, “they’re a team. They’re best friends. You don’t have one without the other. It’s a bad idea to separate the two of them. If I know anything about those two, it’s that, no matter what age or how unfamiliar they are with each other, you don’t separate those two boys.”

On that much, everyone could agree. After all, as they looked over to the two boys on the couch, their heads were already pressed together examining Lestrade’s badge.


End file.
